Between the Devil and Ian Eversea: Pennyroyal Green Series

by Long, Julie Anne

  He’d never said anything of the sort to anyone else before.

  “My brother was a soldier,” Tansy confided. “And he died in the War of 1812. Bayonet got him.”

  Gone. Everything she’d been a part of was gone. And the enormity of that left him speechless. There really were no words to describe it. The simple ones would have to do.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She knew he meant them. It was in his voice.

  They didn’t speak for a time. She leaned gently against him, and he allowed it, and silently they thought about “gone” and each other.

  “My sister Olivia,” he began, “she won’t say anything about it, truly, but I believe—we all believe—she was in love with Lyon Redmond. He’s heir to the Redmond family, and Mr. Miles Redmond’s brother. And he disappeared a few years ago. I don’t know what’s worse. Knowing for certain whether someone is gone forever, or always wondering what became of them.”

  He felt her go still as she took this information in thoughtfully.

  And then she sighed and moved a little away from him, just shy but not quite of touching him, as if she’d only just realized she was leaning into him for comfort, and was uncertain of her welcome.

  His regret was a little too powerful.

  Which was when he realized he’d been taking comfort in her, too.

  “Forever,” she drawled disdainfully, softly. “I hate the word ‘forever.’ It’s hard to really imagine the concept isn’t it? And then you know. When someone is gone forever, you finally understand what it means.”

  “I don’t much care for the word, either. Especially with regards to matrimony, and staying in one place, and the like.”

  She laughed at that and turned around, and . . .

  She might as well have aimed a weapon at him.

  Her night rail would have been demure if it didn’t drape the gorgeous lines of her so lovingly, so nearly tauntingly. The bands of muscles across his stomach tensed in an effort to withstand the impact of the sight. Her hair was plaited in a large, messy, golden rope slung over her shoulder and pouring down the front of her.

  And an absurdly large, girlish bow closed the neckline.

  He couldn’t help but smile at that.

  “Why are you grinning?” She sounded irritable.

  “You look like a gift, tied up with a bow.”

  “Like the gifts you give to your mistresses?”

  “Like the what?”

  “Shhhh! Lower your voice!” She was clearly delighted, stifling a laugh. She’d achieved precisely the effect she’d wanted.

  “I haven’t ‘mistresses,’ for God’s sake. There aren’t a host of them. And I certainly don’t buy them gifts.”

  “All those experienced women wearing experienced expressions. What do you call them?”

  “There aren’t ‘all those’ . . . It’s not as though I . . . You make it sound as though I’ve a harem.”

  The woman was maddening. It was like jousting with a weathervane. And what in God’s name had she heard about him?

  Clearly, enough that was close to the truth. Or she was an excellent guesser?

  “Poor women, who never get gifts,” she mourned wickedly.

  “Tansy . . .” he warned.

  “It might be interesting to be part of a harem,” she said wistfully, softly. “Never knowing whether one might get a visit from the maharajah . . . the anticipation . . . it would be . . .”

  He held his breath, waiting on absurd tenterhooks for what she thought it might be.

  “. . . delicious,” she finally said thoughtfully.

  Oh, God. Oh God Oh God. She was going to be the death of him.

  He couldn’t speak for a time. They were teetering on a precipice here more dangerous than her balcony arabesque of a moment ago.

  “What if . . .” His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat. “What if the maharajah never comes?” His voice was hoarse.

  “With all those wives? I’m certain he comes often.”

  He stared at her. Had she really said that? Did she know what it meant?

  He gave a short astonished laugh.

  “Shhhhh!” she said again.

  “You would hate being part of a harem, Tansy. All those other women competing for a bit of attention. Just imagine.”

  “But it wouldn’t be lonely.”

  The words startled him into momentary speechlessness. And he remembered what Mrs. deWitt had said.

  How was it he hadn’t realized before that she might be lonely? She was so effervescent; she could attract company the way a bloom attracted bees.

  But he supposed it wasn’t the same as belonging to someone. Or to somewhere.

  But she was alone. He felt utterly chagrined that he was only now realizing it. He’d been quite an ass, in many ways.

  Then again, she wasn’t entirely without fault in the matter. Captivating all the men in the town was one way to ensure that the women wouldn’t thrill to your company.

  “And I would be the favorite wife in no time,” she hastened to add, before he could think about it any longer.

  “If the maharajah didn’t kill you first. I hear they use scimitars when their wives irritate them.” He drew a finger across his throat.

  She laughed at that. The throaty, delighted sound landed on his heightened, roused senses like fingernails gently dragged down his back.

  And that’s when he knew: he’d waited too long. He’d somehow missed the moment when he could have, and really should have, made a sensible retreat. The night rail, the night, the girl, the lavender, the laugh—he was now in thrall to his senses. Everything served to titillate them. He was theirs to command. And anything that happened next was a foregone conclusion.

  And something would happen. Oh, something would.

  “Do you know something, Tansy?” he said softly.

  “Mmmm?” She’d been watching his face in the dark, as if she were searching for a particular constellation there, too.

  “It’s always been deucedly difficult for me to resist unwrapping gifts.”

  Her breath hitched in surprise.

  She wasn’t the only one who could be a devil.

  Anticipation. It was the whetstone against which desire was honed. No one knew this better than he did.

  The earth turned, the stars twinkled, the shadows swayed, as he waited to hear what she would say, which in the moment seemed the most important words he’d ever hear in his life.

  “Is that so?” She’d tried for “casual”; instead she sounded breathless.

  “It is, indeed,” he said softly, as solemnly as a judge.

  Anticipation could be delicious. It could also be torture. Often the two were one and the same.

  He simply waited, and allowed her to anticipate.

  He couldn’t quite read her eyes in the dark, which he liked, too, because risk was part of the thrill. The risk of defeat. Was she deciding whether to flee?

  Perhaps he should take this opportunity to flee.

  It was silent, apart from the sound of her breathing, growing ever swifter.

  And when he could have plucked the tension between them like a harp string, he watched, as if in a dream, his hand, so very, very inadvisably, slowly reach across the foot or so of safe distance between them and grasp the end of the ribbon.

  That catch in her breath was one of the most carnal sounds he’d ever heard.

  And then, tormenting the two of them, he pulled the satin through his fingers and watched the bow unravel very, very slowly.

  “There’s the bow undone,” he whispered.

  And then he wound the ribbon in his fist and tugged her gently forward, until she stood just shy of touching his chest.

  And for a space the shock of being close silenced both of them.

  And th
en:

  “I’m not a mule to be tugged about by reins,” she whispered against his chin. With unconvincing indignation.

  “True enough. A mule would have bolted away before I could have captured it. That is, unless the mule wanted to be captured.”

  She gave a short, nervous laugh. Her breath was uneven now. Excitement, or fear, or both.

  He waited.

  Anticipation. The seducer’s best friend.

  Or so he told himself.

  He released the ribbon, and slowly, gently, pushed aside the folds of her robe.

  He suppressed a groan of delight. She was nude beneath that robe, and he’d known she would be.

  He slid his palms around her waist, took his fingertips on a leisurely slide along her rib cage, felt her belly leap. She was trembling. Her breath was hot and ragged on the vee of skin exposed by his open collar. Her skin was a silky miracle. He glided his hands across her belly, heard her softly breathed, helpless, “Oh,” as delicious sensation coursed over and through her, and savored the decadent pleasure of knowing he was likely the first man to touch her like this.

  He should stop. He should stop. This was madness.

  He could feel the blood in his veins heat and thicken as if she was a drug, a powerful liquor. He filled his hands with her breasts. The full, silky give of them made him groan softly. He could hear his own breath now, a soft roar in his ears. And the tiny catch and stutter of her breath, and then the ragged intake of air as he caressed them.

  Her head went back at the pleasure of it.

  He drew his thumbs leisurely over her nipples. They were already ruched into hard knots.

  She arched into his touch as though lightning struck.

  He did it again. Harder. He wanted to take one into his mouth.

  How quickly this had escalated.

  “Ian,” she whispered. Half afraid, half drugged with yearning, half plea. “It’s . . .”

  “I know,” he said. “I know so many things, Tansy. So very, very many things about you, and how you feel, and what you want . . .”

  He ducked and gently, just a little, flicked his tongue over her nipple.

  He realized then he was playing roulette with his own desire. It was time to back away before he was too deep in. Just this taste of pleasure for her now, and then he could leave. He was always the one to leave women, anyway; like an actor who followed an excellent script, he’d always known precisely when to do it. Self-preservation was an instinct.

  Why then, did he say: “I can make you see stars, Tansy.” On a whisper.

  She looked up into his face as if he were the universe.

  He had to kiss her then.

  Her mouth was as yielding as a feather bed; he sank into it with a sigh, a moan, that made him realize what a relief kissing her again was. That every moment he’d spent up until now not kissing her had been a shameful waste. And it began just that way, languid and wondering, a slow exploration, each of them taking unguarded pleasure in the textures and taste and perfect fit of each other. She gave and took in that kiss with a sensual grace and abandon that made him want to shout hallelujah, that nearly dropped him to his knees.

  But he only took that kiss deeper, and his tongue dove and stroked, her hands clutched as they slid up over his chest and latched around his neck for balance, and she opened herself to him.

  His fingers trailed her bare thighs, up to delicate, sheltered skin between them, up to the silky vee of curls. She ducked her head and buried it against his chest; her breath gusted hot and rapid on his collarbone.

  The want of her shook him; his limbs felt stiff and clumsy. He could taste lust, peculiarly electric, in the back of his throat. His cock strained against his trouser buttons.

  He skated his fingers between her thighs and found her slick and hot. Wet. So ready for the taking.

  Her breath caught on the word “Oh.”

  He did it again. A tease, a feathery slide of one finger, and she jerked. “Ian . . .”

  He did it again, harder.

  She arched into it on a choked gasp, circled her hips against him, her hands clutching his shirt. How he wanted her hands on his skin. Her breath had begun to come in shallow little gusts against his throat.

  He did it again slowly, tantalizingly.

  He stopped. Testing.

  “No,” she begged softly on a whisper. “No, please don’t stop . . .”

  “Keep your eyes on my face, Tansy.”

  He wanted to witness her pleasure.

  And so he was able to watch her eyes go heavy-lidded, and her head tip backward, and the cords of her throat go taut, and her head thrash forward again, and the air come shredded between her parted lips as he played with her desire like an orchestra conductor. And this was how he knew when to stroke harder, when to circle and tease, when to slide a finger deeper into her so that she moaned softly, gutturally, against his chest. A sound that nearly made him come right there and then.

  With hands clumsy and shaking he unbuttoned his trousers, and his cock, thick and erect, sprang free, and he lifted her thigh with one hand, as high as his waist, and slid his cock against her wetness, tormenting himself, tormenting her. Once . . . twice. Three times. A dangerous, dangerous game, the most dangerous he’d ever played, when in one thrust he could be inside her and chasing his own pleasure, his own release, and he knew it would be explosive. His every cell cried out for it.

  And yet the two of them did seem to seek risk. They would take it too far, he knew that now. It was inevitable. Perhaps not now, perhaps not tonight.

  “Ian . . . I’m . . . help me . . . I’m . . .

  He pressed his palm hard against her and circled, and she choked a sound of bliss, and her body bucked.

  He pressed her head into his chest just in time to muffle her scream. And he held her close and felt triumph as he felt her body shake like a rag, over and over with what was likely her first ever release.

  Silence apart from the ragged tide of breathing. Cool air over heated skin.

  She shuddered.

  He pulled her night rail around her, wrapped her in his arms and pulled her close. A little closer than his erection would have preferred. He felt quite martyred, in a way, and blessed in another.

  He waited for her breathing to regain normal rhythm.

  “Shooting stars.” The words were muffled against his chest.

  He gave a short, almost pained laugh. “I’m a man of my word.”

  He was afraid now. In a way he’d never before been. He didn’t know how to extricate himself from this. Because he knew another woman couldn’t possibly be the answer; nor was avoiding Tansy altogether. For this was a different kind of want. It wasn’t mere sensual hunger. He knew how to sate that kind of hunger. He suspected the correct word for it was “need.” There was a first taste of opium, or gin, for every addict, after all. This strange, wild, reckless, beautiful girl could very well be the end of him. He might as well throw himself off the balcony now.

  How very ironic. The duke would finally have his revenge then.

  He could feel her heart beating.

  He savored it, as if the heartbeats ticked off the minutes they had left together.

  She tipped her head back and looked up at him. For a long time, in silence. “Are you going to lecture me now? About how very dangerous all of this is, and so forth?”

  How strangely fragile she felt now in his arms. His arms went over her shoulder blades. Suddenly it seemed to him that it did feel as though wings could sprout there.

  “No,” he said softly. “I think you know. This can’t happen again, Tansy.”

  Her head jerked back and she looked up at him. He heard her breath catch.

  And so the words had landed hard.

  He’d meant it to sound like an order. It was difficult to shake the habit of issuing orders
.

  Knowing her, he suspected she’d interpreted it as a dare.

  God help him if she did.

  And it really was a prayer to God for help. If she dared him again, it would be all or nothing.

  He looked down at her, and traced her lips with a single finger the way he had traced her name on the wall of Lilymont.

  He dropped his hands abruptly from her.

  “Go inside before you take a chill.”

  He suspected his tone had already gotten the chill started, which was just as well.

  He backed away from her and didn’t turn around until he was in his room again, the door closed behind him, the window firmly locked, and yet he knew he was hardly safe.

  SHE DIDN’T EXPECT to sleep, but she finally tumbled over the edge into a deep, black dreamless one.

  She was disappointed about the dreamless part. Her senses had just been thoroughly, properly used for the first time ever, and until she slept they’d reverberated like a thoroughly strummed instrument. She’d lain there and felt her body humming a hallelujah chorus. She wouldn’t have minded reliving the evening again and again and again in her sleep.

  For, as he’d said, it couldn’t happen again. Not in waking life.

  So that’s what bodies were for, she’d thought, drifting back into the house from the balcony, realizing her feet were chilled. And that’s what lips, and fingertips, and breasts, and nipples, and skin, and arms, and cocks, were for. And that’s what men were for, and women were for. Suddenly, as bliss echoed all through her, everything else humans were capable of seemed superfluous.

  I know so many, many things.

  He would say that and then go on to say it couldn’t happen again.

  He was right, of course.

  And when she awoke in the daylight, she had the sense to feel a certain reprieve. As though she’d escaped something. Daylight was slightly less conducive to madness, and she did not intend to be among the legion of women Ian Eversea had seduced and abandoned. A woman ruined because of a weakness for a beautiful man with a legendary way about him, and therefore useless to anyone, and a disgrace to the duke and his family, not to mention her own family.

  She found the notion of that unbearable.